When In San Francisco
by InsertTheWitty
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, a pessimist (a realist he argues) but good at heart when you take your time to dig into him is how the closest people to him would describe the editor. And adamant about his life remaining exactly same. But after years of pestering and a job offer he can't refuse he moves to San Francisco (and he hates it already.)
1. In which Arthur hates travelling

Arthur Kirkland was not a lucky man. Being cursed with particularly evil demons disguised as humans for siblings and a demeanor that most would describe as unpleasant if they were putting it nicely, along with one thing after another falling apart, blowing up in his face, or falling apart then blowing up in his face, you would be right in assuming that at twenty eight his outlook on life was not all puppies and rainbows.

It wasn't all bad. He had a job he enjoyed. Well, mostly enjoyed. Had a cat who was a good listener when he came home complaining about the idiots at work. Or wasn't listening and staring at him to feed her, he could never really be sure. Walks in the park could be lovely, but with a bad case of as 'englishness' as Francis ever so childishly called it, he apparently needed a desperate attitude adjustment.

Which is exactly why he decided to move to sunny California for a change of pace. Well, he says 'decided' when really it was all Francis', despite his general assholishness, constant pestering for multiple years to move, with an odd mix of concern and complete exasperation with Arthur's constant pessimism, saying he thought it would be good for him to have some new surroundings that weren't the always overcast and gloomy scenery of jolly old England. After years, a long, tiring, extremely annoying years, a position in the San Francisco branch of his publishing firm opened up with higher pay and considering his boss there in London recommended him for the job, Arthur had no real reason to refuse Francis' request to move anymore. A person who values routine, the change felt odd and scary, but he felt good about it, maybe even a little optimistic, and he did admit to himself he enjoyed his time in Los Angeles a few years back visiting some friends, so maybe living in a California coastal city wouldn't be too bad. Plus he hears it's quite foggy there, so he wouldn't have constant sunburn just from standing outside for too long.

With that in mind, Arthur finally relented a month before his birthday and packed his bags, sold at least half his things, used up just about all his life savings to buy a decent sized house half way across the globe, and left the only country he'd ever called home behind for the notorious nation he'd only ever heard about.

* * *

Airports have always been one of his least favorite places. The goodbyes, the multiple crying people, voices begging loved ones not to go, the sea of people in a rush barreling into you no matter what you do to avoid them, the stress of not knowing whether you will ever see your luggage again, it's just one huge pain in the ass. So when he got the San Francisco International Airport, after dealing with customs, he made a beeline for the baggage claim as to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible. He stood watching the conveyor belt going round and round, tapping his foot impatiently. It had been twenty minutes. If he didn't hurry Francis would come looking for him and that was the one thing he wanted to avoid at all costs.

Nothing good comes from Francis looking for you. Ever.

Looking around while he waited, he noticed there was a café about half a dozen meters or so away. He glanced back at the baggage claim, conflicted. He didn't want to go get a cuppa, miss his bag in the cycle, and have to wait another half hour for it to come back. He deliberated for a while. And then he did a quick one eighty towards the café, baggage claim and Francis be damned.

He desperately needed a decent cuppa after the day he just had.

First, he had to wake up at the asscrack of dawn to get to the airport, only to be hassled by security, almost tripping over a little girl lying in middle of the ground for some odd reason, then bumping into the girl's mother, the shock making him let go of the suitcase and ultimately dropping it on her foot. After listening to her enraged babble for about ten minutes, he ran with the rising sun to the terminal, bumping into at least twenty people on the way there, having his foot stepped on enough times his new loafers were most likely permanently scuffed, eventually getting to the airline desk sweating, panting, and seriously contemplating homicide, having a momentary heart attack when he couldn't find his ticket, having made it just in time to have barely caught his plane.

He then spent the next ten hours having the tiny spawn of Satan kicking the back of his chair for the entire flight, the man next to him's incessant snoring or singing surprising well done yet still annoying renditions of the opening to Drake &amp; Josh, a baby somewhere on board who would not stop crying, and the flight attendant introducing herself as Michèle constantly coming by his seat asking him if he wanted peanuts. Or water to wash down his peanuts. Or maybe some orange juice because it was morning to have with his peanuts.

As lunch rolled around, and they were selling the horrible airplane food, he opened the container of the sandwich he bought, alarmed to find it also containing a packet of peanuts. He looked to the back of the plane, his heart skipping a beat when he saw Michèle peeking from behind the curtain with a terrifying glint in her eye and grin on her face. He whipped his head back around and threw the packet at the devil child behind him. That at least stopped the kicking for an hour or two. He was starting to feel a little targeted.

When Michèle came back round she just stared him straight in the eyes, shaking her head slowly before moving on to the next row. Arthur felt himself breaking into a cold sweat. He should have called his mother and told her he loved her before he got on this flying madhouse because there was a good chance he'd never make it to San Francisco.

When Michèle came back with the alcohol towards the end of the flight he ordered a scotch. But after she gave him his drink she didn't leave. A few awkward seconds of silence passes, and she still said nothing. She reached into the food cart and some irrational part of his mind thought she would pull out a knife and stab him right then and there. What she pulled out wasn't a knife. Michèle pulled out a packet of peanuts, simply dangling it in front of his face without a word. He said no for the tenth time. She still didn't move. He tried to push her hand away from his face. Her hand wouldn't budge even a centimeter. He looked up at her. Her eyes and grin from earlier were still in place, flat and dead. He felt the sudden need to run to the bathroom and pray for his life or scream bloody murder. Possibly both.

Arthur in end made it off the plane without Michèle brutally murdering him and stuffing bags of peanuts down his throat, having told her he was allergic to them. That was a lie and she seemed to know it. She had smiled, nodded, and not ten minutes later as the plane was landing in its destination, she speed walked up the aisle right up to him and dropped a bag of almonds in his lap before speed walking back. He looked down at the packet dumbfounded, and the plane landed to a chorus of baby wails, feet hitting plastic, and opera renditions of Drake &amp; Josh.

* * *

He ended up missing his luggage and waiting another half fucking hour for it to come back around. Then walked out to the airport to find late afternoon California sun blazing in his eyes and Francis, grandly dressed as ever, leaning up against some ridiculously fancy car that probably cost as much as Arthur's newly purchased abode if the sleek exterior and what he guessed was real leather interior had anything to say about it.

Francis groaned when he caught sight of Arthur walking at a snail's pace, dragging his luggage with one hand and shielding his eyes from the most sun he had ever seen with the other. Well alright, that was a bit of an exaggeration, even if he had spent most of his life in a particularly wet part of the United Kingdom.

He reached the car after a couple minutes or so, a journey that probably would have taken him one if he hadn't enjoyed Francis' expression as he almost hobbled along like an old man in desperate need of either a cane or a wheelchair so much. When he did reach, however, there was no greetings from Francis after so many years of non-physical contact, the usually touchy Frenchman quiet and hurried. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Am I keeping you, because this" He makes a gesture to the concret of the terminal, "was all your idea."

Francis heaves a sigh, before groaning and running his hand through his hair. "No- well yes but- just get in the car, _rosbif_. "

Before he could even be offended, his luggage was practically ripped from his grasp and tossed in the in car's trunk that in no way was good for a car that looked like it could bleed money from the exhaust pipe.

Francis continued his apparent mission of commandeering his things and manhandling them into the car trunk, a bloody miracle it all fit inside, Arthur thinks. It was as Francis had slammed the trunk door and moved to the driver side of the car that Arthur really looked around and it settled in what he was doing.

This wasn't just a visit. He was going to be living here, for many years, potentially the rest of his life. He was going to have to learn to drive on the right side of the road, wait to get his green card so he can start working at the San Francisco branch in two weeks time. He looked up at the sun just setting on the horizon, turning the sky shades of pink and orange, feeling very apprehensive, and maybe even a tad bit frightened, but it was far too late to turn tail and catch the next plane back to London. His flat was sold and his job back home already filled up by someone capable.

He was broken out of his reverie by Francis sticking his head out the driver's side window. "Eyebrows, get in the car _pour l'amour de dieu_!"

Arthur snapped his head in his direction. "Alright, frog face I'm coming, don't get your knackers in a twists!"

There was a huff and a low mutter, "Nobody but you would use the word '_knackers_' I swear."

_'Not home.' _He reminded himself in the plush leather interior of the car after he had spent a solid minute stood in the curb yelling very inappropriate for an airport type things in Francis' face before getting in. _'This is home from now on._'

"You know, when I said move here, San Francisco wasn't what I had in mind."

_'This old argument. You'd think he'd get tired of bringing that up.'_ Arthur rolled his eyes, not turning from the window.

"Well, I didn't have a job offer in L.A, my _sincerest_ apologies." He could hear the sarcasm practically dripping off his own voice. Now it was Francis' turn to roll his eyes.

"Must you so hostile already? This is the first time we've seen one another face to face in years!" Arthur sighed.

"You know what, you're right, I apologize." His felt a bit ill saying that and seeing Francis' stupid face turn smug right after. Then he yawned unexpectedly, remembering he hadn't gotten much rest on the flying hell earlier. Francis cocked an eyebrow at him in question. "Hard flight?" Arthur shook his head.

"You don't even want to know." Francis rolled his eyes again, no doubt having his fair share of plane rides from satan with how much traveling he did, and Arthur couldn't help himself.

"Your eyes are going to end up stuck like that." He smirked. Francis groaned.

"Sleep you stupid Englishman, it'll take a while to your house."

Arthur chose not to antagonize him further, Francis seemed to be a particularly bad mood and even he knew when to step back and allow Arthur deal with his problems, so in times like these Arthur returned the favor. He leaned his head on the window and watched the passing Californian scenery, so very different from what he knew.

He prays he won't regret this.

* * *

Notes:New story! I swear I'm not abandoning Your Bones, chapter five is coming out but I wrote half of this while procrastinating chapter four. This was supposed to be a one shot about ghosts in Chicago. I got so far off track what is wrong with me.

In french:  
Rosbif- roast beef  
Pour l'amour de dieu- For the love of god

Translations from google as I am not a native speaker. Apologises for any mistakes.


	2. In which Arthur Deals with a Break-In

"Why the fuck are you in my house?"

There was strange man invading his home wearing a lab coat, at the sound of Arthur's voice he stood up even straighter than he already was, looking straight at him with wide, surprisingly vibrant blue eyes.

"I-" he looked around, voice shaking, "I honestly don't know."

The man's eyes softened in confusion, then in something that looked akin to sadness, before he regained his composure and stuck out his hand in greeting, "The name's Alfred, Alfred F. Jones, sorry about the scare. Nice place by the way."

"Okay so what you're telling me is, is that you don't come from this world, that you're from a different dimension entirely. And through some strange series of events where you're from involving a lot of science I wouldn't understand," Arthur rolled his eyes, putting _I wouldn't understand _in air quotes, "that somehow ended up with you in my house, though you're not exactly sure why."

Alfred brightened considerably after perhaps half an hour of trying to explain how he wouldn't know why he was in another man's home or how he had gotten there in the first place.

"Yes, exactly! Well, not necessarily. See, you know about the multiverse theory, right?"

Arthur could only look at him like he was a mad man, but nodded anyway. "I went to school."

Alfred rolled his eyes, "They don't teach that in every school but; well actually, do they really teach that here? Is it fact? If someone proved the multiverse theory before I did I'm gonna be so mad!"

The Brit resists the urge to either sigh or scream in frustration, settling for rubbing his temple as if he was experiencing the worst headache in human history. He actually might be in all honesty. "No, it's still a theory here, some teachers just teach the simplistic versions because it's interesting and could be possible." _Apparently, Ms. Calbury was right too._

Alfred's eyes widened, and he slammed his palms on the wooden top of Arthur's kitchen table, leaning towards Arthur with a cautionary smile, " So, are you saying that, technically, I just proved the multiverse theory in _two different universes? _"

Arthur resting a hand over his frantically beating heart from the heart attack he just endured, gave the culprit a withering look. "Technically."

The other man gives him a sheepish smile in return, eyes regretful, before what Arthur said fully hit him and he shot up.

"Yes! Fuck yes! Suck it Braginski!"

'_I cannot believe this is happening to me right now.'_

Arthur tries not to glare to hard at the other man, but he swears he can physically feel his headache double in size. "Are you sure you're a scientist?"

Alfred broke out of his celebrating, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense, "I've got three degrees in (dear god I love google,) thank you very much. It took all the blood sweat and tears you could imagine to get them too."

It felt like Arthur physically couldn't stop himself from raising an eyebrow. "And how old would you happen to be, Mr. Blood, Sweat, and Tears."

"For your information, I happen to be twenty-six and I double majored the hell out of college." He looks at the clock on Arthur's wall that Arthur would never admit is actually there so he can tell the time. He gets enough old man jokes as it is. "Wow, we got way off topic for-" Alfred makes a show of double checking the time, "twenty minutes there. What I'm trying to say is that I'm from a different earth." He started, careful to keep his explanation in the simplest terms possible. "One with the same year and day and physics and everything, at least from what I can tell, but the thing is, I don't really know how I got from there to here."

Alfred seemed to give Arthur a couple moments to consider this, in which the Brit chose to stay silent instead of voicing what he really thought. And what he really thought was that this guy was off the fucking deep end.

With a story as absolutely, and quite literally, _out of this world _, Arthur had to have at least a little apprehension or he'd start to think himself mad as well. The multiverse theory was at the very least possible, a lot of things are possible in a universe so utterly strange and unexplored. But literal _inter dimensional travel? _That's just taking things a bit too far.

The time traveler sitting across the table. Alien? Dimension jumper? Alfred started fidgeting with his hands, looking around Arthur's kitchen at anything really, noting what he has back on his earth or what devices this world was seemingly missing. Eventually though, self automated toasters became dull, and he was quickly descending into boredom. And as anyone in his lab will tell you, things tend to blow up when Alfred F. Jones gets bored.

It was then he dared to look over at his other dimensional companion whose house he accidentally invaded, and found a pair of greens eyes glaring daggers. His first reaction was to put up his hands in what he hoped was a placating manner, still wary of this new earth and the differences from his own home he may not know about. For all he knew, on this earth humans could spit acid.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, sending an internal prayer that this day would not get any worse than it already was. "Let's say I believe you," Arthur said, and at that Alfred started to grin. Arthur held back a small noise of frustration and continued, "For the sake of argument, let's say you're really from a different universe entirely. Who's to say that anything you say is true? There's no one here who knows you or what you do, everything you say about yourself or where you come from could be complete bullshit and I couldn't have any way of knowing." Not that Arthur thought that himself truly, the man's eyes were so earnest and open it was hard to force himself to doubt anything he said, but Arthur prided himself on having a good head on his shoulders, and what kind of head would his be if he just took the world of someone who _just_ _supposedly broke the laws of space and time._

The other man looked like he was going to disagree, and for a second Arthur hoped he would, if only give the little voice in his head screaming a bit of comfort. But then all Alfred did was sigh, shoulders falling. "That," he began, "is a really good point."

Arthur stands, moving to somewhere else other than the kitchen, anywhere that didn't have anything to do with this madness the universe decided to drop in his lap "for funsies," as he imagines Peter would say. "I do hope you know far from reassuring that is."

Alfred runs his hands through his hair, "I know, but I can't think of anything that would convince you-" In their arguing, neither of them noticed the sound of the door opening, nor the Frenchman behind it.

"Eyebrows, I have respected that this is your house and that you wish to cook in it, but I have grown tired of over done oatmeal for breakfast so I've taken it upon myself to-" Francis stops, wind from the open door still blowing his hair and clothes into disarray. His eyebrows are perched high on his forehead, eyes wide and shifting back and forth between Arthur and their surprise guest.

"And who is this?"

The three of them find themselves in some sort of strange stand-off, Francis having closed the door and putting three bags over flowing with groceries on the floor without taking his eyes off either of them, and Arthur officially regrets every single choice he's ever made that has lead him to this moment.

Alfred's looking between Arthur and Francis, as if he's trying to put together a rather confusing puzzle.

Arthur's gazing around the room frantically, trying desperately to wrap his tongue around words that would even begin to explain what his friend just walked into, both looking and feeling somewhat like a trapped animal, when Francis grabs his wrist, having walked across from the door to the kitchen without Arthur noticing, and flashes their guest one of his movie star smiles.

"If you'll excuse us for a moment, shouldn't take long." There's a lot of his accent in the statement, a clear emphasis on 'excuse' and 'shouldn't take long.' Arthur, though still lost and a bit overwhelmed, surfaces to wrinkle his nose.

Next thing he knows he's being manhandled into the guest room, currently occupied by Francis' many, many possessions.

"As much as I would _love _to take this in _wonderfully _amusing direction, you look like you're about to pass out, **_so calm down._**" Francis has his hand on each of Arthur's shoulders, and he uses the steady pressure to bring him back down to earth from the cloud of panic before.

It takes a while, and he still can't get his breathing under control, but he can think, which is a great improvement over three minutes ago.

"**_Remember what Eliza taught you in high school?" _**Arthur nods, remembering the test and late night study sessions that ended up with him in a "panic spiral," as they would call it, and Eliza teaching him how to breathe, and make a list of things he was looking forward to while counting to ten, breathing at least three times each number.

Without needing to be told or prodded, Arthur launched straight into the list, _'__1\. Seeing my mum this Christmas, 2. Getting to see Peter's face when he sees what I get him and Alistair's when I get him literal coal, the bastard. 3. That raise I'm getting when I finally start at the new branch. 4. Buying Alice something nice once I get it. 5. Buying all the tea San Francisco can give me. 6. Annoying Francis complaining how bad it is. 7. Finding out why the fuck there is a dimension jumper in my house. 8. Not having to carry an umbrella everywhere. Thanks England. 9. Finding out exactly what Thanksgiving is. 10. Having Francis around more- wait no I take that back. 10. American sweets and pastries everywhere._

Arthur's head is blessedly quiet, leaving him with full lungs and a rational mind. Having regained his control, Arthur immediately scowls.

"You seriously used that opportunity to speak French at me?"

Francis laughs, taking off his jacket in one fluid motion and putting it on his own personal coat stand. "You make it too easy, **_roast beef."_**

"Don't you start with me."

Sighing, Francis throws a cautious glance at the closed bedroom door, frowning. "Considering I can count the number of friends you have in this country on one hand, I'm going to guess there is a story behind that handsome man in a lab coat."

It becomes Arthur's turn to sigh, "You have no idea…" He closes his eyes, mentally preparing himself for the words he's about to force out of his mouth. "Basically, the man in the lab coat's name is Alfred, he doesn't really know why he's here, and he's from another dimension."

There's a period of silence, so Arthur takes the opportunity to open his eyes again. Francis seems frozen, he's standing completely still, a glass of wine in his hand, and looking at Arthur as if he's completely lost his mind.

"I know it sounds insane, but," He bites his lip. "Ugh, this would be easier if we all just talked and I let him explain it." His friend reanimates, Francis looks down at his glass before throwing it back and downing it in one go. He turns around and emerges with the entire bottle before he looks Arthur in the eye.

**"****Lead the way."**

* * *

**Notes: **It's been more than a year but hey, I got it up. And if you thought that I could right a comedy story without it being absurd or having some sort of out of no where twist you were sadly mistaken my friend.

As I told my (practically) beta for this story, "I was lacking inspiration and a way to actually get Alfred in here and then it hit me. Why not take this "comedic" slice of life story. And go completely batshit crazy?"

The bold is for when someone speaks in a different language, in this case French, because I am not making last chapter's mistake again, ugh fourteen year old me why.


	3. In which Arthur's a bit stuck

It was a pleasant day really, the sun's shining, there was a gentle, cooling breeze, it's a weekend so there's not many people outside in a murdering mood. It's mostly parents with their kids and twenty something hipsters playing guitar in the grass, the perfect environment if you want to go out a have a good time without worrying about drunk people or going deaf. Arthur might have gone to a park, had a bike ride and then find himself a nice little place to sit down, maybe read, perhaps just to think.

No, honestly, there is no way in hell any of that would happen if left to his own devices, but the point is, his day had potential to be something great, but instead of doing anything even remotely like that and possibly enjoying himself, something up there hates Arthur enough to have him be stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Or more accurately, sitting at his small kitchen table, clutching a mug of tea and using every ounce of his energy trying to pretend his "best friend" and home invader aren't engaged in a Mexican stand-off with himself in the middle.

It's not working.

Francis shifts, pulling his phone out of his pocket and tapping away at something, somehow functioning while barely looking down and breaking eye contact with Alfred.

_'Probably trying to Facebook stalk the poor bloke.' _Alfred for his part looked determined as ever, clearly trying to come off as friendly and non-threatening while simultaneously not backing down an inch from the challenge presented to him.

"So," Francis stood, taking his glass of wine to drape himself over Arthur's counter top, "is anyone going to tell me what's going on, or should I continue with the assumption that this is something sexual."

"No! Good lord, just shut up and let Alfred explain," said Arthur, rubbing his temples.

Both pairs of eyes turned to the man in the lab coat, Alfred jumping just a bit in his chair at the sudden attention. He turns on the charm, letting loose a wide grin and sticking out his hand. "The name's Alfred F. Jones, and as you can probably tell, I'm not from around here." Francis eyes the offered hand and snorts into his glass.

"So I've been told."

Alfred lets his hand drop before running it through his hair, displacing the organized mess of it all, and letting it rest on the back of his neck.

"Yeah, it's a bit complicated, but really long story short, I'm an Astrophysicist from a different universe," he pauses,"-I think."

Arthur shoots up, his chair screeching against the kitchen tiles, glaring.

"What do you mean "I think "?" He seethes, anger dripping off every word. "I did not sit here and try to wrap my head around the fucking insane notion of multiple universes, almost have a damn panic attack, and just make frenchie over there think I'm absolutely bonkers for an "I think," Alfred."

Alfred half yells in frustration, clutching at his hair briefly before scrubbing his hands on his face before slamming his hands down on the table, "I can't really be sure about anything right now, okay?! Unless you'd be cool with me breaking into goddamn NASA and using their tools to figure out exactly what fucking reality I'm in right now, you're just gonna have to take my fucking word for it!"

It's was like they were back at square one, only this time they were on the edge of punching each other and it had only been about an hour. Alfred stood now, palms pressed into the table, and Arthur gripped the back of his chair so hard his knuckles turned an uneasy stark white. Francis, sensing that his friend might actually stab the handsome man in the lab coat if the situation did not de-escalate immediately, jumps into the fray.

"You both need to stop. Right now." Neither man seemed to stand down, if anything Arthur bristled like a cat ready to claw someone's face off, and Francis could feel his own irritation rising. With a small breath he pushed it down in favor of addressing Arthur directly.

**"You need to calm down and let me handle this. The stress is getting to you and as much as I love you, I am not bailing you out of jail if you kill him."**

The tension in the room was palpable, every person in the kitchen stood on the unstable ledge of a near fight. When it became clear that Alfred wasn't going to relent, Arthur sighed, stepping away from the chair and unclenching his fists. The thin, round back of his chair allowed his nails to carve half moons into his palms. They hurt a little.

**"Fine."** Arthur drops his shoulders, stalking out of the room towards the living room. On his way out, Francis hands him his mug of tea, refilled with hot water and the smell already easing more of the tension out of his muscles.

Once sat down on the couch, Arthur's phone buzzes with an incoming message.

**From: Frog Fucker**

**'You're almost out of tea. Go get some. XOXO'**

Even knowing it was just an excuse to get him out of the house, Arthur took it gladly, pocketing his phone and slipping on a coat before he could even think of a reply.

* * *

Notes:

Alright ya'll, really short chapter, which I'm sorry about, truly. But I had fun writing this one, even if it is short. I know I say this, but I do have a good amount of the next chapter written and it should b longer than this one!

Thank you for reading and sticking by this trainwreck!

Bolded is French


End file.
